I don't get my haircut at places where all the stylists are wearing Crocs.

I don't let anyone who looks like she's wearing make up give me a makeover at the Bobbi Brown counter.

I never dated a guy whose butt was smaller than mine.

I eat dessert every night (after the boys go to bed!).

I don't wear holiday themed sweaters, jewelry, or shoes.

I refuse to carry a diaper bag that looks like one.

I stick to stylish ensembles that work on playdates with the boys' friends or mine.

I make my kids eat food at the table. Water or milk in a lidded cup is the exception.

I consider myself a MILF...if I don't, no one else will.

I drink red or white depending on my mood or what's available, not based on what the wine snoots say.

I stay far, far away from the Hudson jean wearing, blinged out cell phone chatting, Burberry diaper bag toting, Prada loafer clad moms at the park. Ditto for their uber-smocked children who are still wearing Keds bumpers at age 5.

I read books. Real books. Like the kind without pictures, cardboard pages, or cellophane protective covers.

I serve two servings from the fruit and vegetable food group at dinner every night.

I make sure our family eats dinner together every single day. At the table. With no TV. No toys. No phone. No Crackberry.

I never vote Republican. EVER.

I embrace progressives, but really wish the earthy types would shave their legs and pits and bathe once in a while.

I take unposed photos of my children to document their myriad expressions of pure joy, utter defeat, and brotherly love.

I don't drive a minivan. No MILF does.

I buy myself fresh flowers for no reason. If I don't, only my dad will...twice a year anyway.

I surround myself with people who are smarter, funnier, handier, and kinder than I am.

I don't camp.

I don't like to touch nature. I just like to admire it from a porch with a Mojito in hand.

I don't stay in hotels that don't have internal hallways.

I don't let my boys go to school, or anywhere for that matter, in dirty clothes.

I carry Purell with me everywhere and use it incessantly.

I stash Chapstick in every purse, tote bag, glove compartment, drawer, and pocket I have.

I take Bird and Deal on an adventure of some kind or another every day.

I play regular music in the car. I would crash if I had to endure some singalong children's chorus singing Barney faves. I am getting ill just thinking about it. There's no reason the kids can't enjoy Jimmy Buffett (minus "Why Don't We Get Drunk and Screw" of course), the B-52s, and the Beatles.

I don't kiss Mac Daddy if he isn't clean shaven. If I do, I break into massive hives. Trust me on this. Odd but true.

I don't buy shoes or jeans that hurt. Looks above comfort is a crappy way to live.

I slather on sunscreen. On myself. On my kids. Mac Daddy is more resistant to it than a 2-year old, and he's the one who's so white he's clear.

I leave painfully long, blabbering voicemail messages because the machine is a captive audience.

I don't take sleeping aids, though I haven't slept a straight seven hours in about 18 months now.

I have hardwood floors in my house.

I'm going to see my friends Shan and Chris at least once a year. Our boys became fast friends on our last visit to Minneapolis so I can't deny them that. Plus, Chris and Deal share a birthday, and Mac Daddy and Shan share a birthday. Our fates and friendship are inextricably intertwined.

Tuesday, February 19, 2008

"Oh, OK. I'm coming. I love bath time! I can make bubbles in the tub." Deal

"Oh, yeah. How?" - Me

"I can make bubbles with my bottom!" - Deal

I suppose I have a lifetime of fart and poop jokes ahead of me. Again, Mac Daddy is gonna love it, all under the guise of playing along with the boys. Does anyone out there have a tea party loving, shoe-obsessed princess who needs some shopping tutorials?!

Monday, February 18, 2008

Bird and Deal love to play superheroes. Yesterday Bird was Captain America, the red Power Ranger, and a really beefed up Spiderman all in the span of one hour (precisely the time it took Deal to dig enough holes for an 18 hole golf course in our yard). Bird is a true quick change artist even without a phone booth on the premises. I even made the boys superhero costumes once, and boy do those suckers look HOMEMADE (and not in the quaint Cracker Barrel crocheted dishtowel way). For starters, I admit that the superhero names I chose were not all that menacing - Super Bird and The Real Deal. I don't have it in me to be a bad ass. If I were in the midst of some back talkin', temper tantrum throwin' four-year old antics I might be more inspired to come up with something that invokes rage. But alas, I stuck with something more on the quaint side.

Are my children destined to get the snot beaten out of them on the monkey bars because I am raising them to be wimps? Or worse, dorks? I was a dorky kid, and trust me, it takes a really, really, really, long time to experience divine justice when the tables turn and the mean, popular girls are chunky and broke from all the Botox injections. It might have taken 20 years, but I didn't look so bad at my high school reunion. Infinitely better than the bitchy clan...and you know damn well who you are.

When Bird and Deal play superheroes they invent these amazing powers that sprout totally from their own imaginations because we don't let them watch that crap on TV. I'm pretty sure there are some preschool buddies who are contributing to indoctrinating my boys to the world of superheroes too. Some powers that Mac Daddy and I must contend with: "I can blast slime and sludge through my fingers to make you stop in your tracks! I can spray water through my cape strings! I can be invisible to spy on you! I can make sticky gum appear to get you stuck! I can turn into a policeman and arrest you! I can shoot lasers through my eyes! I can create a force shield to trap you! I can make the earth's core open up and eat you!" They run amok through the house exclaiming their powers and zapping all the bad guys in their path. I'm good with this game for about, um, 5 minutes...max. Mac Daddy digs it and could play all night. In fact, I think he keeps the boys up past their bed time just to relive his youth from the days before it was misspent.

After I had conked out one evening and tried to lounge on the couch with the latest issue of Cookie, the magazine for hoity-toity parents, Mac Daddy decided to try to bring me back into the fold because he must have thought I was feeling left out or something. He's a special guy that way. But for the record, I was perfectly content with my magazine sporting images of new moms wearing size 0 white jeans while tossing their infants into the air with manicured nails and a snapshot look of glee on their bleached white teeth and nary a well-coifed hair out of place. But I'm not bitter.

"Let's ask Mommy what super hero powers she would have." Mac Daddy

"Let's see...I would be able to eat whatever I wanted and still weigh 100 pounds and have a totally sparkling house at the snap of my fingers." Me, feeling pretty good about my answer and half wishing it were true

Insert glazed over, deflated, uninspired pathetic looks from Bird and Deal here. I swear they looked like stoners for a second there.

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